


There's nothin' common about it!

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 20:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12638778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: The world's worst patient gets taken care of by the world's most stubborn nurse.





	There's nothin' common about it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to jj1564 for her beta skills - awesome as always <3 This is basically a Just 'Cause fic, and can be blamed on DEW over at spn_bigpretzel and jj1564's latest set of drabbles. LOL! Like we need an excuse to make Dean sick!

The Impala jerks violently towards the grass verge as Dean coughs and splutters, spraying mucus and saliva all over his precious Baby’s windshield.

“Dean, dude, GROSS! Could you at least _try_ not to kill us, please? Just because **you’re** a stubborn mule doesn’t mean **I** should be meeting our illustriously bearded maker a few years ahead of schedule.”

Dean rolls his eyes and regrets it as his vision swims and he almost falls face first into Baby’s steering wheel. “I’b bine!”

Sam watches Dean swipe angrily at his dripping nose with the sleeve of his much abused green jacket, and almost throws up his caesar salad whilst grimacing at his brother’s streaming red rimmed eyes and flushed clammy cheeks. “Seriously, man, you need a day off. That is one nasty assed cold you’ve got going on there.”

Resolutely refusing to look at Sam, for fear the car will careen off the road, Dean focuses on the _two_ white lines running down the center of the blacktop, and tries desperately not to cave in and ask Sam to drive the rest of the way home. “I’b bine! D’ere’s dothin’ brong wib be.”

Sam chews on the inside of his cheek in an effort not to burst out in a fit of chuckles at Dean’s crossed eyes and running nose.

Dean’s never taken kindly to being laughed at, and especially not when he’s feeling like thrice hammered crap.

Choking back his amusement, Sam rolls his eyes and leans in close to Dean, whose common cold sponsored halitosis breath is rank enough to strip skin from bone and eyebrows from faces. “Dean, if you’re so _f_ ine say ‘ _I’m not the pheasant plucker, I’m the pheasant pluckers’ son._ ’ I dare you!”

“Dick.”

“Stubborn jerk.”

“Bossy bitch.”

“Dean, please?”

“Bine, bine, a day in bed bight not hurt.”

“Good boy.”

“Buck off.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is absolutely nothing common about Dean’s cold.

Sam can hear his brother wheezing and sneezing from six rooms away, and it’s all he can do not to march in and force the boiling hot bowl of Chicken and Stars down Dean’s swollen throat.

Shaking his head and sighing when Dean’s hacking coughs come floating along the hallway, Sam stirs the pan full of soup and wonders how long it will take Dean to finally give in and admit he’s actually fucking ill.

Adding a final pinch of rosemary to the steaming concoction on the stove, Sam starts ladling it into a bowl and stealing himself for the fight he’s about to have on his hands, a-fucking-gain.

It’s a mark of how very rough Dean’s feeling that he doesn’t even pretend to protest when Sam comes sauntering in carrying a tray full of belly warming goodness, “Gibbe.”, Dean croaks.

“Finally! Hang on, I’m just gonna - “

Sam places the tray on the table next to the couch and starts fussing with Dean’s covers, tucking them in around his shivering body and laying the back of his hand gently against Dean’s forehead. “Dude, you’re dripping wet and burning up. Maybe we should get you to a Doc - “

“NO!”

“Look, man, I’m all for fighting through the pain but you look like death warmed up. I don’t wanna come down here and find a sweaty corpse on my couch.”

Dean hasn’t got the energy to argue, he’s barely got the energy to open his eyes, let alone fight with Sam over his Mother Hen impression. Hanging his head and sighing, Dean pouts and coughs, leaving a nasty looking string of drool hanging off his chin, before reaching out towards the tray still tucked onto the table. “Can I hab by soup birst?”

~~~~~~~~~~

The walk-in surgery waiting room has ten people all draped around it in various states of festering putridness and Sam thinks perhaps there’s a virus doing the rounds. He’s about to say as much to Dean, who’s leaning limply against his shoulder, when he hears an almighty glass-rattling sneeze and nearly drops his brother.

Dean’s kitten weak and hating every minute of it, and as a final protest against Sam’s need to coddle and cosset him, he attempts to stand straight and nearly falls flat on his ass.

As he wobbles and Sam’s arms circle his waist automatically, Dean makes a point of staring at each and every person spluttering and spewing god knows what into the air. “I’b not stayin’ here, they’re all sick.”

“And you’re the picture of health?!”

“Shud up!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Well Mister Wesson, I’d say you have the flu. Your temperature is elevated but you can’t stop shivering, your skin is almost translucent, and judging by the impressive amount of mucus you just spat into my bin _ahem_ , I’d say the virus is well on it’s way to attacking your entire immune system.”

Sam wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders, letting his brother tuck his head into the crook of his neck, and offers the Doctor a small smile. “Treatment?”

“Bed rest and lots of fluids. You’ll just have to let it run it’s course, I’m afraid.”

Sam can feel Dean’s lips forming words, trying to argue about his diagnosis, and cuts him off before he’s started. “Trust you to get _actual_ Man-Flu. Come on snotty, let’s get you home.”

Dean _wants_ to shove Sam away and stand on his own two feet, but apparently his feet didn’t get the memo because he stumbles sideways as Sam rises from his seat.

“Stop being a fucking stubborn dick, Dean. Sorry Doc.”

The Doctor grins to himself and nods at Sam. “Not a problem, sir, I’ve heard far worse. Mister Wesson - “

Dean forgets his own alias, brain too full of greymatter stifling flu to form coherent thought, and it takes Sam nudging him gently for him to realise the Doctor is addressing him directly. “Yeah?”

“Your partner is obviously quite capable and happy to look after you, please, let him. Unless you’d like a dose of pneumonia to go with that startlingly loud cough?”

Sam actually laughs out loud as Dean leans into him and mumbles under his breath.

“Bine, bine, just no bed baths, okay?”

Sam’s all set to admonish Dean for whining and complaining when the Doctor makes him almost fall over.

Giving Sam an appreciative up and down glance, the Doctor smirks and clears his throat. “I would have thought that would be a perk of being ill, Mister Wesson.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been a week of forcing fluids and easy to digest foods into Dean, who’s done nothing but bitch and whine about it, and Sam’s inches away from dousing his brother with the next bowl of broth. “Dean, if you don’t stop fucking arguing with me, I’ll leave you to fend for yourself. No more meals delivered to your _deathbed_ , no more massaging your aching shoulders, and no more sitting here until the wee hours reading you the baseball scores. Understand?! You can splutter your ass downstairs and make your own damned dinner.”

Dean’s silence means he knows Sam’s serious, if for no other reason than his ears have gone bright red and he’s got steam practically rolling out of them.

Sam stares at Dean, raises his eyebrows, and makes a _come on_ gesture with his fingers.

When Dean mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key, Sam has to bite back the smile that’s trying to force it’s way onto his face. “Good. Now, shove over you giant gross snot-monster, I’m absolutely fucking knackered.”

Dean shunts sideways and rolls over, knowing Sam will curl around him like a human blanket.

Sure enough, the sound of Sam’s boots hitting the floor echoes loudly before the bed dips and Dean is surrounded by the calming familiar scent of Sam’s fruity shampoo and woody aftershave.

Sam’s breathing slows and Dean slots their fingers together before tugging gently and dropping a kiss on their joined hands. “Love you, Sammy. Thank you.”

Sam’s almost asleep, but the feel of Dean’s lips and his whispered words of gratitude filter through the fog of sleep. “You’re welcome. When you’re better, you’re cleaning the kitchen, for a month.”

“You haven’t been workin’ _that_ hard.”

“You haven’t been watching the multicoloured streams of snot being expelled from your bulbous red nose. There’s absolutely nothing sexy about having to peel used Kleenex off the bedroom carpet. Now shut up and sleep, before I hide all the tissues and cough sweets in the Bunker.”

 

End.


End file.
